


not like it's even worth the time

by hulklinging



Series: Spring Awakening [5]
Category: Journey into Mystery, Loki: Agent of Asgard, Young Avengers
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Theatre, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Genderqueer Character, Loki's dad is a dick in this, it's Loki and it's Spring Awakening so I'm sure no one is really surprised
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-13 18:08:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5712019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hulklinging/pseuds/hulklinging
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki writes letters and can't decide whether no answer is better than the alternative.</p><p>Art imitates life, and a character and a castmate help teach him how not to care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	not like it's even worth the time

**Author's Note:**

> This one took a while. Thank you for all of the love this 'verse gets! I never expected the amount of kind words this series gets, and it makes me very happy.

_Dear Herr Schtiefel..._

 

Loki eyes the letter that is currently taking up space in his mailbox. He really, really does not want to open that letter.

He knows it's not from his brother, because his brother already emailed him a reply to the letter he sent out to his whole family, which he had sent off in an excited haze before realizing it might not be the best idea.

He couldn't really help it. They'd gotten in their first batch of flyers for the show, and there was his name, right there. Suddenly, it felt so real. Sure, he's done shows before, but they've been smaller stuff, mostly improv shows and one acts. Nothing like this. His name in print, his voice filling a theatre as every eye in the house locks in on him.

How can he not at least try to share that with his family?

He had included one of the postcard-sized ads in each letter, sent them off with some desperate hope. His mother's card probably hasn't even reached her yet, since it has to cross an ocean to reach her. She won't be able to come, anyways. His brother had already bought tickets for opening night (and he's bringing his girlfriend, which means they'll get to meet. Terrifying). There were a few letters sent out to various cousins and uncles, and he knows theatre isn't really his family's cup of tea but they always make sure to send him programs or invites to the various championships and recitals that they have, their way of showing they still consider him part of the family (There are other relatives he hasn't heard from since he moved out. That's fine. He's not bothered, really).

He had sent one out to his father as well. Knew that his father would have gotten the letter just as fast as Thor, because they're both living in New York. And now there's a letter in his mailbox from the one person he's sure wouldn't reply and he's frozen, half expecting it to crumble in his hands like some kind of illusion the minute he reaches for it.

"Loki?"

He flinches, but it's just Verity, who lives in the apartment next to him and has some sort of day job that involves a lot of paperwork and not a lot of leaving the house. They'd met in the elevator when Loki had first moved in, and she'd been the one to push him to start auditioning again. That was their friendship, a quiet understated thing, light knocks on the door when Loki ordered too much food to eat by himself or when Verity found an article she thought he might like. Easy. Comfortable. Loki doesn't have a lot of comfortable things in his life, and part of that is his own fault, his bad habit of overcomplicating things, but with Verity he's managing.

"Hi! Sorry." He steps out of the way of her own mailbox, and she shoots him a look through her glasses that is all too knowing. He can't lie to her, she sees right through him, which is also a new thing for him. Usually he lies almost instinctively, opens his mouth and lets stories fall out and who cares if they don't necessarily belong to him? Telling a stranger a story that makes them smile does no one any harm.

But Verity doesn't want his stories. She wants the real him, and Loki doesn't really know what of his personality is constructed, lies built up over time, but she does make him want to try to figure that out.

He grabs the letter, feels the envelope buckle under his tense grip, and offers her a weak smile. "Letter from my dad."

She nods, because she knows when he needs a push and when he just needs space to breathe. He gives her a wave and takes the stairs up the three flights to his tiny apartment, because otherwise he might be tempted to open the letter in the elevator and that will probably just lead to embarrassment.

Door closed behind him, he throws himself into his half decrepit armchair, ignoring the creak of protest it makes, and stares down at the letter.

What's the worse it could say? He asks himself, because honestly. He's not sure what would be worse; his father rejecting his invitation to Spring Awakening, or actually accepting it. But either way, he'll open the letter, and he'll deal with it. Whatever happens.

He pretends his fingers aren't shaking as he tears open the envelope.

A single piece of paper slides out, and he can't help but hold his breath as he unfolds it. His eyes go to the top, and there's a roaring in his ears, because it's typed on his father's firm's letterhead, and is addressed to a name he no longer goes by, and his eyes skip over the short note to the end, to the name of his father's personal assistant. He couldn't even take the time to answer himself, just told his assistant to type up a polite 'no thanks.'

When he was thinking of worst case scenarios, this isn't one that had crossed his mind. And it's much worse than a no or a yes. He doesn't even register enough in his father's life to deserve a handwritten dismissal.

He goes back, reads the note. Not one word pierces the fog clouding his brain, not until he's read the note three times over. She's apologetic, she's always liked him, and that's very kind of her, really. But it isn't what he wants. He doesn't want some professional lady's pity. He wants his father's approval.

It's pathetic, that he's still looking for that. It's obvious that's not an option, not anymore.

He crumples the letter in a fit of rage, tosses it in the general direction of the wastebasket. Fine. It's fine. He doesn't need them. He's never needed them. He'll be a star or he'll crash and burn all on his own, thank you very much.

He's laughing. He's not sure when he started, but he's not sure if he can stop. He crumples in on himself, just like the letter with empty words, balled up and tossed aside. He lets himself fall apart for a few minutes, until the ringing in his ears has subsided and all he can hear is his own breathing. Shallow, still a little too fast, but better than it was. He sucks in air and feels his lungs swell.

He doesn't have time for this. He has songs to learn, notes to look over, lines to run. He counts out beats to the hitches in his breathing until they're smoothed out, then reaches for his script. He sits on the floor of his home (all his, and it's a closet with plumbing, essentially, but it's his) and runs his music until he has to get up and get ready for work.

Work is bussing tables at a little eatery that makes up for mediocre food with great drinks and cheap prices. It's dull but it pays, and they don't mind that he's switching to the morning shift in a few weeks so that he can do the play. There's actually one of their posters up on the wall by the door, another one in the back by their coat hooks, and it makes him smile like a dork whenever he walks by them, but he can't help it. This is New York, they're all writing something or auditioning for something or pitching something entirely new. And it's just a revival, some nothing company, some theatre closer to Canada than Broadway (okay, not really, but he's an actor. He's allowed to be dramatic), but he can't make it through a shift lately without the rest of his coworkers asking him how rehearsals are going, or congratulating him for the tenth time. He pretends to be embarrassed and they pretend they don't notice how he can't stop smiling.

He doesn't need a father, not here and not in that theatre, once the lights go down. He scrubs dishes and imagines each dish clean is another inch of his skin born anew, lets his new body take shape. Someone who stands straight and loves to take up space and is good at what he does. Someone who has his name on a poster hanging by the door. Someone who has a photoshoot tomorrow, so they can get images for the program and the final round of posters. Someone who's tired of caring for things and getting nothing back.

On his way home, he takes the key that opens a home no longer his off of his key ring, lets it slip from his fingers and doesn't stay to listen to it clatter through a grate and out of his life.

The next day is a day off, and he intends to make the most of it. It's also one of those days he wakes up slow, catches himself staring at his gangly limbs and thinking they don't look quite right. And maybe this is him crashing and burning, maybe this is him running away, but he doesn't mind. And he's surprisingly good at running in heels.

He's got hours before he has to even think about getting ready for that photoshoot. He sings through Act One as he gets dressed, because today's an Act One day. Hopeful, bright. He gets his eyeliner right on his second try, and his skirt sits on his hips like it was made for him, and he remembers all the words to And Then There Were None in all the right order. If that's not worthy of wasting some time in a bookstore, he doesn't know what is.

He has a long coat that all but hides his skirt, and the hood is deep enough that his eyeliner looks more like shadows, but that's not the point anyway. The outfit is for him. It doesn't matter if he tucks it away. What matters is that he's wearing it, that he steps outside of his apartment and no one can tell him to turn back around, go back inside and change before you embarrass your family. He takes one step, liking the sound his favourite boots make on against the floorboards of his building's hallways. He wears them almost every day, but today the sound is just a little different. Or maybe it's him that's just a little different. Click, click, clickclickclickclick, because he can't help but run down the hallway, skip over the creaky elevator for the stairs, taking them two at a time as he laughs at his own weightlessness and how the skirt feels in freefall.

He's thumbing through ratty fantasy books, kind of looking for a few titles but mostly just browsing, when he sees a familiar face. And he freezes, although he really shouldn't be surprised, because this day felt strange and special and maybe this is why, maybe that feeling was Fate giving him a little push. Somewhere, a trickster god is laughing, but Loki can't really think about that, because he knew that was a danger, when he picked what name he wanted to go by.

Thor had given him a disapproving look, but what else was he supposed to do? He has a brother named after a thunder god who lives up to his namesake, who is grand and powerful and there's nothing he can do to top that, and he loves his brother so why would he want to? So instead he picks a shadow, picks a trickster patron and the weird coincidences that come with it, because nothing was changing and he wanted to force Fate's hand. And he did, and it was fine, he's fine.

He's standing in a bookstore, his coat next to him because it was too hot down here. He thought he'd hear someone come down the stairs, and maybe he wouldn't even care. And Billy Kaplan is staring at him, Billy with the pretty voice and the sharp tongue and the big eyes that have the tendency to follow a certain castmate when he thinks no one is looking.

There's a long beat, and the air feels too empty, like someone's gone and missed an entrance and no one's quite sure who.

And then Billy smiles, a smile that's something like understanding, and asks him what he's reading. They end up having a loud debate about Hogwarts houses and characters from musicals, and then they're having a coffee and making Game of Throne predictions, and then it's time for Loki to rush back home so he can get changed and head to the photoshoot. Billy gives him a wave and laughs at Loki's sudden nerves, enjoying the fact that only the leads and the adults are called upon for this.

"Good luck with the shoot!" he calls after Loki, and Loki turns back to shoot Billy a mischievous grin, because he can't help but get the last word.

"Good luck with the hot blonde!"

He stays an extra moment, just long enough to watch Billy's face turn bright red, and then he's off again, clicking his heels all the way home.

The shoot goes well, he thinks, or at least Kate and David seemed pleased with it. Their photographer intimidated Loki at first, dressed all in black, voice low as he introduces himself as Kevin without meeting anyone's eye. But with his camera in his hands he comes alive, and by the end of the shoot he's actually smiling as he packs up. So that's probably a good sign. But he shows up to the next rehearsal feeling more than a little vulnerable, because in his hurry to make the shoot he didn't ask Billy not to mention the skirt to anyone, and he might know what house Billy thinks Fiyero belongs in (Ravenclaw, and they can argue more about that later), but he doesn't really know much about Billy as a person. Maybe Billy's the kind of person who talks about seeing a fellow cast member in a skirt over his pre-rehearsal coffee with Karolina. Loki doesn't know.

He shouldn't have worried. Billy comes up to him before rehearsal starts, a smile on his face and a plastic bag in his hand. He shoves the bag at Loki, says something about how he thought Loki might get more use of these than he was, and how Loki's taller than him but some of the stuff might still work, and turns around to greet Julie and Noh as they come through the door before Loki can say anything more than 'thanks?'

He doesn't open the bag until he's at home again, still vibrating from the best rehearsal yet, but when he does he's glad he waited. The bag is full of clothing. A dress or two, a few skirts. They range from casual and comfortable to one absolutely stunning little black dress that probably started life as a prom dress or something equally fancy. Most of the stuff looks as good as new, although there's a few things that are a little more worn. One of the longer skirts even has some messy but well-meaning stitching along one hem. Loki could fix that, he's been teaching himself to sew, but he thinks he'd rather leave it. Not everything needs a clean slate to move forward. Sometimes, the past is something to hold on to.

He folds each article of clothing with careful hands, gives them a position of honour in his little chest of drawers. And if he has to clear out a space for them, a stack of letters he never sent, essays and report cards that he worked himself to the bone for and never got more than a nod for in return, that's fine. He's done talking to someone who pretends he can't hear a word. He'll sing instead.

_"And then there were none._

_And then there were none."_

**Author's Note:**

> [Some amazing fanart for part 4 of this series.](http://theskycat101.tumblr.com/post/121185152712/really-ernst-youre-such-a-sentimentalist)   
>  [My tumblr.](http://hulklinging.tumblr.com)


End file.
